


Rayuwa

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two fics in one. A snapshot of two very intimate moments between Samson and his Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rayuwa

**Author's Note:**

> _Rayuwa_ is Hausa for 'life.'

It’s been a long day for both of them. Hadiza has let her paperwork pile up again, and several deadlines are converging in the next few days regarding issues that are no doubt of the utmost importance. She has no idea where Samson has been all day; everywhere from the sounds of it. Training with the men in the morning, helping to repair some of the masonry with the builders in the afternoon, and last she heard…helping Master Dennet in the stables.

Her Knight in Red has been a very busy bee, indeed.

When he finally returns to her chambers, Hadiza is wrapping up the last of whatever foolishness needs her seal and signature, and replaces her quill and stoppers her ink bottle. He’s wearing his work clothes, now, having returned once during the afternoon to strip out of and clean his armor. Sweat stains are all over his shirt, grass stains too, and she is very sure that the ‘mud’ on his boots is actually horse manure.

She can smell it from across the room.

“Don’t. Touch. Anything.” She warns when he strides across the floor, and she wonders how the carpet will fare when the servants come to clean later. Samson comes to stand by her desk, his face still glistening with sweat, his hair stringy with it. Smirking, his arm comes around her neck as he leans in to press a firm wet kiss to her forehead.

“You reek of shit, Raleigh!” She cries in protest and he laughs at her pouting, “Bath. Now.” Samson doesn’t move. Hadiza stands up and he gently places his gloved hands on her hips, squeezing them affectionately.

“No kiss?” He asks and Hadiza purses her lips, but she’s hiding a smile. After a moment she leans in, pressing her full lips against his. His tongue swipes her lower lip, and she parts automatically to allow it entry. The kiss deepens and for a moment, she forgets the stench. She simply hums, shutting her eyes, content. Everything is right for a moment. Samson pulls away.

“Gonna scrub me down, princess? Or you trust me to do that myself?” He’s teasing her and tempting her in the same turn. Hadiza leads the way to the bathing chamber, and begins to draw a bath for him, activating the heating runes carved into the lip of the tub. They flare brightly before settling into a soft, warm, magma-like glow. Samson begins to strip unceremoniously, tossing clothes, boots, and gloves. When he’s nude, Hadiza shamelessly takes him in. He’s built like a warrior of that there is no doubt, and he gives her a wicked grin when he settles into the tub.

“None of that frilly Orlesian, mess,” he warns her and she grins, reaching for a cake of soap.

“You’ve been so busy today,” she murmurs as she kneels at his back, gently scrubbing. Samson grunts as she applies a bit too much pressure to a scar that is clearly recent, as it’s still pink. It is clearly a claw mark from an arcane horror that nearly got the best of him.

“Had a lot to do, lovely,” he remarks, taking the washcloth from her to scrub the bits she can’t reach. Hadiza reaches for a bottle of liquid soap. Samson closes his eyes and leans his head back as she begins massaging the soap into his scalp, working it into a lather. He groans appreciatively, then leans his head back enough that when he opens his eyes, he’s looking up at her. She smiles down at him, then yelps as he pulls her down for a kiss. Hadiza feels her heart race. There is something incredibly pleasurable about them being able to kiss the lower lip at the same time. Then he licks into her mouth and she groans, squeezing her thighs together.

“Something on your mind, princess?” He asks wickedly, and Hadiza swats his arm playfully, making him laugh before he sinks beneath the water to rinse his hair. He emerges, slicking his hair back, and sitting up enough that Hadiza has to bite her lip. The muscles of his back and shoulders are sculpted with care, as if the Maker took time to chisel the lines and curves, then weathered them with various scars. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his back and she wants to kiss every single one of them.

“Stop staring and get in here,” he laughs. Hadiza shrugs out of her robe and obliges him, making a splash as she slips into the tub to come after him. This is what she loves, this startling intimacy of them alone together, of the world falling away as if only they exist. He takes her in his arms, lets her wrap her legs around his waist and he kisses her. He kisses her until she’s lightheaded, until sentient thought is wiped away, until she is reduced to nothing but flares of lightning with each contact of his mouth on hers.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers and he smiles, tracing his mouth along her jawline, seeking out the tender flesh above her hammering pulse, and mapping it with the tip of his tongue.

“I’ve been here all day, princess,” he whispers, “could’ve stopped by for a visit. Always wanted to tumble you in the hay.”

She laughs, then sighs as Samson sucks the skin, melding into a series of saturated kisses, dwelling on each one as if he seeks to imprint his full signature on her. Hadiza lets him guide her, clinging to him as his hands, so hard and calloused, leave trails of fire along her satin skin. Hadiza becomes desire in that moment, a length of twined rope becoming more tightly bound with each moment Samson delays. He cups the full, lush weight of her breasts, thumbing her nipples and delighting in her gasps of pleasure. In return, she squeezes her thighs around him.

“Have a care, princess,” Samson mutters, “we’ve got all the time in the world, now.”

And they utilize it with enviable relish.

When Samson finally sheathes himself in her, Hadiza is shivering despite the warmth of the water. He doesn’t move, and neither does she, but there’s something different about this, something raw and untapped they’ve never felt before. It is beyond the melding of their bodies, as if they have become fully aware that there is **life**  here, in this moment.

“Raleigh…” Hadiza breathes, “I… _Maker_ …”

“I know,” he says, his voice rife with wonderment, “I know…”

“ _Please_ …” She begs, and he begins to move, the water sloshing in time with their lovemaking. It spills over the edge of the tub onto the floor, but they are beyond caring. Hadiza is focused, her limbs tangled around him as she keens, and Samson’s grip is firm and protective, gripping her waist as he moves her up and down along the length of him. Before, there had always been a degree of urgency in their coupling, but this is different. They are an exposed nerve in the stinging cold of the mountain air, skin sliding against skin, blending their heat, blending their heat, blending their heat…

Her nails bite into his skin, dragging along his sweat-slick shoulders, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, heedless of the shadow of the tide that they are trapped beneath. It crashes over both of them, and stars burst across Hadiza’s vision as she feels him fill her, and she clenches around him, milking him as he whispers those words to her, repeating them as fervently as a verse from the chant. He kisses her again and again, as if he is parched and she is the only source of water in existence, and she kisses him back. There is life there, now, there is life.

“I love you,” she murmurs against his lips, “I love you…I love you…I love you…”

He can’t digest the words fast enough. He gorges himself on her declarations, wishing he can bottle up this moment in his life, this moment he knows is stamped and stitched into the tapestry of their souls.

There is life here, and Samson is grateful he gets to enjoy it.

 

* * *

 

 

As she took her claim on his lap Samson’s hands slid up the sinuous length her back, touching her with a tenderness he had forgotten he was capable of. So much of his life had been spent handling the surety of well-forged steel, of glass vials filled with glowing blue or red poison, of leather and armor. Rarely had he been afforded the chance to handle delicate flesh, and not with any real affection save the flashfire moment that slaked a baser need.

A lot could change in half a year’s urging.

For her part, Hadiza had never been afforded the opportunity to touch, taste, and explore that which she had never known she wanted. With Cullen, she had reveled in it, coming to desire with the same focused curiosity as she did with her magic. With Samson-- _wallahi_ \--she  **burned** with it until she thought she’d be naught but ash and tinder in its wake. Both of them were learning the various degrees of its intensity, but tonight seemed steadier....calmer.

“Still afraid of me, Inquisitor?” He asked, trailing one calloused finger down her chest, between her breasts and lower still, “Still unsure about all this?”

His other hand’s grip slid to her hip, squeezing slightly in response to her shiver. Hadiza’s skin was burnished mahogany in the low, flickering illumination of the fireplace’s flame, casting her face in shadow. Her gaze was steady, almost prideful, but Samson had learned to chart the archaic lines of text writ in her eyes. He’d known from the moment she let her guard slip during her judgement of his crimes, that she was not as hardened as her reputation made her out to be.

“No,” she said carefully, swallowing as Samson’s finger slid between the moist folds of her sex, “I think the only thing I fear is what this means...for us.” She sighed, rolling her neck to ease the tension in her shoulders.

“Do not be mistaken, Samson,” she continued, ignoring the bolt of desire that pierced her, and the erotic sound of his finger sliding back and forth along the slick between her thighs, “I know all too well your capacity to be dangerous, but I also know that you’d never seek to utilize that. Not here, and certainly not  _now_.” It was praise for his prowess--a thing mocked by younger warriors and templars who jeered him for his age and health when he did the work of paying his dues--and it was a warning. Hadiza had become inordinately adept at sheathing the blade of a threat in the velvet of diplomacy. He knew he’d have Leliana and Josephine to thank for that particular skill.

Watching him, Hadiza knew he could not help the soft edge in his gaze that betrayed the emotion they both guarded jealously, hoarding it close like precious coin, only spent once and never again.

“Aside,” she murmured, her expression gentled by a smile, “you’re the first man I’ve been with that wasn’t afraid of me.”

“Oh?” Samson was amused, “And just how many men have you been with, princess?” His grip might as well have been iron, and Hadiza opened her mouth on an answer only to gasp as Samson dragged her forward. She steadied herself, gripping the headboard, and then a golden warmth born of abject pleasure washed over her like soft water. She groaned, biting her lip, small, inarticulate sounds leaking from her mouth as Samson’s stubble scraped her inner thighs while his mouth... _alakemu_.

Hadiza bowed her head, sucking a breath harshly through her nose, the silence of the bedchamber shattered by the wet, sucking sounds as Samson’s tongue probed and licked, his grip shifting to cup her rear and tilt her hips just so, allowing him full, unimpeded access. Hadiza’s other hand joined the first in gripping the headboard.

For a while, words failed her,  flickering to life like a flame, and then guttering out in a breeze as those words became monosyllabic moans. Samson said nothing, maintaining his vigil, shifting his head from side to side to encourage her to spread wider, teasing her clit until it swelled and ached, throbbing for the touch of his lips and tongue.

His name shivered out of her  on a particularly hard pass of his tongue, and Samson chuckled--the only indication that he was well-aware of what he was about--listening to the scrabble of her nails on the carved wood of the headboard as she struggled to maintain her composure. Samson’s strength was more than enough to hold her balanced, and as the sensations mounted, her hips moved, involuntary and erratic, seeking...

She needed to get away. The pleasure was too much. If he kept going she’d come apart in his hands, and she had to be quiet. It was so late, and someone would hear them....

Hadiza tipped her head back and a wail escaped, expanding in the air and bouncing off the stone as Samson’s grip held her in place, allowing her no quarter for escape, his lips sealing around her clit, sucking just enough to change the pitch of her cries. She shuddered, gasping in sharp staccato breaths, trying to fill her starved lungs.

And then suddenly there were bursts of light along her vision as she eked out a desperate cry, trying not to squeeze Samson’s head between her thighs. She dissolved astride his eager mouth, a quake of a rolling climax that spread from the epicenter of his lapping tongue and the suction of his mouth, and rippled outward. Samson shut his eyes in private bliss as a wash of slick coated his chin, savoring the taste of her, a bit of salt, and inhaling her heady and aroused scent. Hadiza was languorous and sedated in the aftermath, just barely aware of Samson shifting her body, her consciousness still attempting to draw back into the skin and bone, knitting herself back together piece by piece. When she found the strength, she all but collapsed by his side, guided by his strong hands, thighs quivering as the final, ghostly ripples faded, leaving her replete.

Hadiza’s smile was a simple, dreamy thing, her eyes fever-bright and glassy as she finally sought to stretch along the length of his body, fitting herself in the nook of his encircling arm as he licked his lips, thoughtful and satisfied.

“Mm,” she mused in a slurred whisper, “I want that every night.” Samson shot her a look, playfully startled.

“Every night? Don’t be greedy. I give you that every night and you’ll spoil.” He chided, sucking his teeth and then reaching to tug a curly ebony strand from between them.

“I promise I won’t...” Hadiza’s tone was equal parts pleasure and equal parts sleep and Samson chortled, giving her shoulders a light squeeze.

“I’ll consider it. But only if you’re good, princess.” He thought to claim the victory in this banter but Hadiza spoke, her voice a little clearer, but her tone very...very different.

“I can be  **good**.” And Samson felt something unfurl in his blood, hot and scalding, as if the word  _good_ had been dragged between her legs to be placed upon his tongue. He didn’t respond, and Hadiza soon slipped into sleep, leaving Samson with a fresh pang of desire from the unspoken promise of many nights to come.

Damn her.


End file.
